Robin Revolution: P R I D E
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: When Dick Grayson re-wrote history, he did it with the revival of the dead Robin in mind. The funny thing is, Robin was never dead, because Robin never dies. (An assassin, his best friend, and an archer reborn are the only ones who remember the truth.) From the Death, to the Rebirth, to the Reunion, with all the trials of caring for a Tamaranian niece in-between.


**Disclaimer**: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

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**memories don't always last forever, đứa nhỏ**

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It's been a long time since Lian Harper's had to be disappointed in others, but this just happens to be one of those times. It figures.

(Her dad's always been a sucker for cute things, especially ever since "Daddy's Little Princess" was born, but, seriously? He was _still_ moping over her death? It's bad enough that the woman she can't really call "Mom" had been visiting her grave, but — him, too? God, parents loved _way_ too much.)

But, lo and behold, here's the proof that, yes, there's still room to be disgusted. Here she is, looking for Mar'i's Aunt Cass in the League of Douchebag Assassins, blowing shit up better than Uncle Jay ever had, — including Damian's little buddies — and it's the kind of vicious fun that she's always enjoyed.

(She's pretty sure the homemade formula she rigged up her own trick arrows with is on par, if not better than, the dynamite mix Arsenal uses, but, whatever. She doesn't mind the heat, and she knows Dami and Mar'i like the explosions as much as she does.)

Of course, she kind of can't enjoy the mayhem she's caused when she's fighting — in close combat, too, _dammit_ — against a lady in a mask that looks suspiciously like a Cheshire Cat's stupid face. And, if she and Damian are right, she also knows who's behind the white, white grin: Mom.

(Or, Not-Mom. All things considered.)

There are scratches and bruises splattered across her unprotected limbs, and Lian guesses she should've listened to Robin's advice for getting some arm and shin guards, but it's kind of difficult to _think_ and _plan_ when she's at as huge a disadvantage as this.

Still, she fights off the blurring knives with her reinforced arrows, spinning and whirling in a dance of steel on steel, ignoring the nicks and scratches that get past her guard. It's the rhythmic violence she's grown up with, and the cold, harsh precision, while not something she's accustomed to using, is just another style of predator and prey.

The shadows welcome the Cheshire Cat, accepting the assassin as one of their own, and gladly hide her, but this is Red Hood, Lian Harper, and she challenges the shadows with a smirk, a duck, and a _kick-sweep-dangit!_ combo that — somehow _misses_, and —

A block, a parry, and suddenly the air's too cold, her body's too hot, and the clothes weigh her _down_. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up close combat for long, but this? This is just _ridiculous_.

(Somewhere, she's sure Damian's scolding her on never learning Uncle Dick's acrobatics. Her only answer is sticking up her middle finger, and maybe blowing a raspberry in his face for the trouble.)

Weakly, discreetly, she tries to reach for an arrow in her quiver, but the Cat sees her, and a blade comes too, too close. Lian twists to get out of its path, trips over her too-big boots, and falls. Her muscles are tired, but she won't give in. Not yet.

A bandaged foot lands in front of her, dashing any notion of escape.

_Not yet._

A heel on her hand.

_Not yet._

A press.

_Not. Yet._

More pressure.

_Not. Yet._

Crushed bones.

_Not ye _—

"Aaaah!"

And then she's screaming, the pain worse than any she's experienced, and it hurts, it _hurts_, _ithurts_, and — this is _Mom, Not-Mom, Mom!_ — and.

The archer ignores the throbbing, desperate to get herself to _move_. She has the urge to straighten her fingers, make sure that nothing's broken, but she quashes it in the face of _fightrunfightfight_. There's no way she has time to check, and it's not like her to wait to be rescued. She has her own strength to rely on, doesn't she?

But.

Lian's given as good as she's gotten, and, yet, all too soon her body gives out, and she's lying on the floor, face-first, looking up the middle prong of a sai to scarred hands, singed sleeves, and the blank, blank mask of a smiling Cheshire.

But, Cheshire doesn't do anything, really — simply waits for her to wearily, achingly, pick herself up. Lian keeps her eyes on the assassin in front of her, grunting at the pain that she refuses to reveal, and steps backward, slowly, until her hands grasp hard stone.

In defiance, she stands as straight as her hurting back will allow, and looks into the eyes of the mask with as brave a glare as she can muster. It may be a bluff, but Lian Harper is no coward, and she'll face death head-on — even if it's at the hands of her Once-Mother.

Cheshire's been following her with every step, and her blades are at Lian's throat. Lian gulps, closes her eyes, and waits. And waits. And waits.

And waits.

She's expecting a sharp pain, a blade, — silence — but, when nothing happens, she opens her eyes. And thus proceeds to mentally groan. Because, really, why would this Cheshire be any different?

It's like her Mom knows, instinctively, that she cannot kill her own kid, — at least not in cold blood — like there's a base feeling, somewhere beneath lithe muscle and sharpened fangs, that makes the fluid movement of her body lock up and the part of her that speculates gape open, wide and judging.

Lian lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in, and the _whoosh_ echoes. The only thing still conscious in the room is her, panting harshly, her back to the wall and her emotions throwing up everywhere, and — the sole reason for her chaos: the lady assassin with the blank Cheshire mask, watching her, analyzing her — curious about her prey, and — despite Lian _knowing_ that the woman is only interested in her abilities, in the fact that her target is but a child, — and a young one at that — Lian can't truly quash the small flame of that thing that's just a little too much like hope burning in her chest.

"You look… _familiar._ Just who _are_ you, little girl?"

Well, that's something she hasn't heard in a _long_ time. She ignores the hurt she knows has nothing to do with her physical well-being and just about everything to do with the fact that _she doesn't remember_, and asserts, "I am _not_ a little girl. I'm probably older than _you_, Cat-Face!"

(Which, give-or-take a few years, just might be true. Considering Damian actually looks _older_ than her Not-Uncle's brother…)

The only expression that answers her is the blank Cheshire mask, grinning in that way that it always has — laughing at her, taunting her, knowing that she is powerless against what it symbolizes. (Because while Damian and Mar'i may have issues, she thinks this obsession of hers might as well take the cake in her long list of faults.)

And if Lian wasn't so busy trying to catch her breath and compartmentalize _everything_ about this situation, reunion, _whatever_, she might've just ripped off her Sort-Of-(Not-Really)-Mom's stupid Kitty Mask to see what Lian is to her, to see what Cheshire the Assassin sees, to — to even glimpse the woman she wants it desperately to be underneath.

(Her Dad's got Daddy Issues with Grandpa Ollie; she thinks she's allowed to have her Mommy Issues without anyone worrying over it too much… Oh, _God_, they should just call themselves Team Mommy Complex, shouldn't they? First Damian with Her Highness Talia al-Ghul… Then Mar'i with Aunt Kori… and now Lian with the Assassin Cheshire.)

The silence is making her antsy, and she's not quite sure what to expect beyond getting roughed some more. She's not too worried about dying now; the Cat's done playing with her prey. Still, she braces herself, coiling her nerves to not react. Not now, and never again.

Despite everything, Lian flinches sharply as the woman's claws caress her face, the metal blades sleek and cold against the warm scarring of her cheek. Slowly, sensually, they slide down, leaving behind long, shallow cuts in the burns from Before, until they come to rest beneath her left breast. They hover over her heart, poised to strike, and —

And then Mar'i and the Demon are there, and suddenly it's not Not-Mom she's looking at, but Cheshire, — just Cheshire, blank and cold and grinning in disdain — who's already moved, too fast for Lian to keep up with.

By the time Mar'i's crouching over here, worriedly asking about her injuries, the woman is gone, disappeared like the Bats she's come to know so well, and faded into the shadows.

It's not until later, when Damian's showing Nightstar how to suck the stupid, burning poison out of her cuts, that Lian realizes that Cheshire left behind more than just the cuts. Somehow, she can still feel the phantom comfort of human fingers agitating the wounds their owner had left behind.

(And, somehow, she feels… _better_… about the mess Mar'i's dad's made.)


End file.
